I Die
by FourSilverArrows
Summary: Johnny tries to hold it together while he waits in the hospital hallway for news.


I Die

Betas: Brownblssm, Janet and J.A. Barrie

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I hate this but I can't leave. Even after Nurse Dixie McCall has told me to go eat and rest. I can't do either right now.

Each time I find myself here, I die a little inside.

I don't even have my usual support system. Right now my entire support system is bleeding the rare element of life all over the hospital floors turning nondescript floor tile into abstract patterns of horrifying beauty.

I might be dying a little on the inside, but someone could be doing it in real life, right here and right now.

I can smell the rubbing alcohol and disinfecting soap over the smell of my own clothing. The hospital smell is doing its level best to beat the smell of soot, smoke and wet material back to its own little corner of the universe.

I would smell even worse if I hadn't left my helmet and turnout coat in a pile outside the door of the E.R. when I jumped out of the ambulance that carried Marco Lopez and Hank Stanley.

Why did I take them off at such an odd time? I don't know. Maybe it was a reminder of what had just happened and I didn't want to think on it. I still don't want to think about it.

I'm pacing. I'm alternating between counting my footsteps and gritting my teeth.

Being still seems to be something I can't accomplish right now, not that I was ever good at being still before. Even though fatigue is dragging at my bones, and my muscles are screaming for me to just lay down somewhere -- anywhere, I pace.

I've found during my life that when you are carrying a burden, it's best to keep moving or the weight will crush you.

My pacing takes me from side to side in the E.R. hallway. I carefully avoid stepping in drying drops of blood that litter the floor, and I die a little inside.

Earlier, when we first arrived at the hospital, the staff ran out of rooms for the wounded. I stood right in this hallway as they looked over the victims of the fire and explosion. One of those that bled on the floor was my best friend, Roy DeSoto. I watched with strange fascination as blood ran down his arm and spider webbed his pale hand. Small drops set a morbid rhythm as they let go of the hand to dash onto the floor.

My heart had pounded with the same morbid rhythm. It was like a frantic bird trying to escape a cage. Still is.

That's all my eyes can see – the drops of red on the floor. I know this blood, and I take a moment to swallow a sob. I can't do that until I see Roy and the others with my own eyes. I can't do that until this is all over and done.

Eyes are on me and I turn to look up. Dixie is coming again and I steel my nerve to meet her.

"Johnny," she says softly. Her face is flushed from the frantic pace of the emergency room. Her hair is slightly mussed and out of place. There are smears on her uniform that I don't want to contemplate right now.

I'm dying inside and she knows it. I can't hide it from her.

"Johnny, Kel wanted me to come talk to you about Roy and the others—"

Roy. My breath catches and I feel a hand on my arm.

What happened to all the air that's supposed to be in here?

"Just breathe, Johnny."

I nod to Dixie. I'm fine. Really, I am. I know she doesn't believe me. I don't believe myself.

I just concentrate on not fainting, not giving up on my friends that are being coaxed to live in rooms I was pushed out of three hours ago.

Dixie starts to speak again. I absently hear names – Roy, Marco, Chet, Mike and Hank. The other words should mean something to me. After all, I am a highly trained paramedic and firefighter, but all I hear is a buzzing in my ears.

My mind doesn't seem to want to hear what she's telling me. The sound of her voice washes over me like cold creek water – like when I used to play near my old home on the reservation in the winter time.

I don't want to know what's happening.

Please, I just don't want to know that when I walk out of here that my world will be less than it is right now.

Somewhere along the way, five very important men became as necessary as breathing and eating for me. Their presence is as warm as feeling the sun on my skin in the great outdoors. As joyful as hearing the early morning birds singing.

Wouldn't it be crippling to no longer feel the sun on my face?

Wouldn't it cripple me if one of my friends died a few feet from me as I stand here doing nothing?

Why am I doing nothing?

I feel like I'm going to cry again as I feel another piece of me die a little as I stop myself.

I suddenly notice that Dixie's voice has stopped. I glance up from my feet to look into understanding eyes . . . kind, compassionate eyes.

"Johnny, you need to sit down at least. Go to the doctors' lounge and take a moment." Her hand tightens on my arm. I can hear the pain and the pleading in her words.

"No," I whisper out over a tongue that tastes like copper and soot and canned air. "I have to be here. Right here."

Dixie looks down at the floor and my gaze joins hers in studying the blood. "It's okay for you to rest, Johnny. You need it. It's been six hours."

Don't mention it. Just don't. For every image of the fire that we came from, I die a little. For every mental snapshot of my friends lying on emergency blankets with eyes closed and their clothes cut open to reveal brutal wounds, I die a little inside.

"You got the call six hours ago to that fire. You spent three hours fighting it and three hours here in the hospital. Go get something to eat and some fluids before you drop like a stone."

Uninvited, the image of the stone faced office building pops into my mind's eye. All those rooms and rooms filled with old wood furniture and paper files. Some files dated back to the 1920s. Old, brittle paper that was like tender once the flames reached them.

Once the fire got hot, truly hot, the janitorial facilities in the basement blew. Fifty different combinations of chemicals and fumes went into the night air.

My crew was not the only crew to suffer. Streeter, Perkins and Collins of 11s; Lester and Blanca of 45s; Kovensky of 14s; Clint of 99s and Murphy and Preston of 24s were all caught in the incident.

From here I can see some of the other firefighters slumped down against the walls. Most of the firefighters decided to wait in the hallway instead of the waiting room. I guess they wanted to be closer to the action in the treatments rooms and give the distraught families more room.

The firefighters are grim, their faces are bleak. My eyes go to the only other paramedic standing in the hallway. Samson of 11s is a friend of mine and Roy's. He's worked a long time with Collins as paramedics. I think Samson has traces of tears in his eyes as his engineer, Zack Lincoln, tries to keep him calm.

I don't have an engineer to keep me calm. He's—

I turned away from the sight. Right now, the men of 51s is all I want to focus on. I don't want to be reminded that I'm not the only one dying a little inside standing in this hallway.

I don't want to think of the family members the nurses herded into a waiting room, out of sight. The image of Blanca's pregnant wife straining against the hands that held her from running into the treatment room that held her injured husband in still burned into my mind. I can still hear the echoes of her hysterical screams as Captain Coleman's wife hugged her, and held her back, at the same time.

I definitely don't want to think of Hank Stanley's wife or Roy DeSoto's wife. I know them personally. I take their anguish personally. I can't push away the thought of them in tears as easily as I can the display from Mrs. Blanca.

"It's not your fault, Johnny." Another hand was placed on my shoulder. "It's not your fault you were outside getting a new air bottle. It's not your fault that you didn't get hurt with them. It's okay to be healthy. It's okay to not be laid up in a hospital bed right now."

My hands start clenching on their own, my fingernails digging into my fleshy palms. I don't look down at them to see if I'm drawing blood. I don't want to see if my blood is joining Roy's on the floor.

Dixie, don't tell me that. I wasn't there when they needed me—

I was startled by physical pain and looked at my shoulder to see Dixie's hand turning red and then white as she grips me hard enough to bruise. I can see the rock hard will that got her through her duty in Korea and made her a top head nurse at Rampart.

"John Gage, you will do as I say." She spat the words out and I took them like slaps to the face. "Now."

She leans in closer when I didn't respond. "You will go get a shower; you will put on what I leave for you. You will eat, drink and rest. Do you hear me?"

I am frozen by her narrowed eyes.

"I said, 'Do you hear me?'"

This is a fight that started the moment I stepped in the hospital to wait for word on Roy DeSoto, Hank Stanley, Chet Kelly, Mike Stoker and Marco Lopez. Dixie McCall is trying to get me to take care of myself, and I just want to be here for my friends for as long as I can.

Don't make me leave. Please?

Can't she see that I'm dying? Doesn't she understand? I can't go. Not right now.

Why am I still doing nothing?

"Bradley!"

Dixie's shout shocks me and I look up to see a burly blond security guard hurrying to come at the call.

"Yes, Ms. Dixie?" he huffed out when he reached us.

"Take this man to the showers. He is to shower. He is to dress in what I provide. He is to eat and drink what I provide. He is to rest for at least an hour. All this will occur before he is allowed back in the E.R. Do you understand me?" Her voice is sharp and her face warned that she would not tolerate disobedience.

"Yes, ma'am!"

Thoughts won't translate into words as I am physically dragged away.

My eyes find Dixie's and I see that she does understand. She knows I'm dying and she's trying to save me. For myself and for the men that are fighting for their next breaths nearby.

I mutely watch as Dixie turns from me and starts walking with determination toward the other firefighters in the hall.

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Two hours of hell later, after I was forced to comply with all of Dixie's orders, I came back to the E.R. dressed in hospital scrubs and a doctor's white lab coat. My hair is still slightly damp from my shower. A pair of white tennis shoes is on my feet. Where Dixie got the shoes was a mystery to me.

The blood on the floor that so fascinated me in the E.R. hallway before is now gone.

The hurried pace of the hospital staff is slower and I can see that Dr. Joe Early is back on call near the radio that connects the doctors to the paramedics in the field.

The only thing that is the same is Samson from 11s. He seems not to have moved while I was gone. The other firefighters look a little cleaner and not as rundown as before.

Dixie McCall cuts a wide path when she's on a mission. She is a force of Nature not to be denied. I almost laugh until I remember the reason I'm here.

Like magic, Dixie appears by my side and waves Bradley off. I am not sorry to see him go.

"Johnny, I'm going to take you to your friends now. I'll give you and the others a few moments while Kel is talking to the family members."

With a firm hand, she guides me to the recovery room. I feel a flush of heat on my face and shoulders as my eyes fall on the first bed and find Roy's battered and singed face.

"Breathe, Johnny," whispers Dixie. "I'll tell you all the details later, but for now just know that they will live."

They will live.

Those three words are a stabilizing platform for my spinning world and allow me to take the first deep breath of air in eight hours. I can feel the high energy that drove me earlier begin to slowly seep away now that my goal is in sight.

My eyes travel to the other beds to see the rest of my friends. Beyond them are the other men who were caught in the blast. Bandages dot their figures along with the tangible proof of an explosion. Fire leaves a distinctive mark on human flesh.

They will live.

But each time I have to wait in that hallway to see if my world will be less, I die a little inside.

One day, I won't have anything else to offer. I'll be an empty husk going through the motions. I'll be a living body with everything dead inside.

I'm not sure if I dread that day or welcome it.

Dixie leaves me at Roy's bedside. She comes back leading the other shell shocked firemen to see their battered friends. In the quiet of the recovery room, they almost seem lost until they find the familiar faces of their injured comrades. Then their bodies begin to relax and their eyes begin to clear.

I look away. It's hard seeing my feelings reflected on other faces.

Roy looks burnt in the familiar pattern that happens to firefighters wearing their masks. The nurses have placed his on his side and I peek around to see all of him. His pale skin is pink and cherry and all the colors in between on his neck and ears. I can guess from his bandages that his shoulder blade is probably broken, and he has deep lacerations on the backs of his arms and lower back.

I wasn't there, but I can guess what happened. I know Roy.

While I was outside the exploding building, doing nothing, Roy was inside throwing himself over his friends, our friends. He had been protecting our friends with his body from flame and debris and chemicals.

"I'll keep the Squad's driver's seat warm for you, Pally," I whisper near his ear, not wanting to be overheard by the other visiting firefighters in the room.

I stagger over to the next bed that holds Hank Stanley. A better leader I've never had. A better example of how to be a man I could never find. I'm relieved to see that he has minor injuries. They won't keep him in the hospital for more than two days at the most.

"You'll be making chowder again. Soon." I pat his covers, careful not to disturb him. He needs his rest after seeing his men in harm's way. I'm sure he died a little on the inside for them when the chemicals blew.

Chet Kelly is next in the row and I smile a little when I contemplate the sight before me.

Chet's mustache is gone.

I can see a cut running from the corner of the right side of his nose to the left corner of his mouth. Small sutures have the wound closed. It was not bandaged due to its location. Instead there is a light coating of ointment that makes his upper lip shiny.

Oh, Chet, you didn't have your face mask on, did you?

I don't know what caused the cut, but I know what caused the dark, crusty skin on his face.

"Get better, Chet. The Sixty Foot Creeping Horror is on this Friday. Don't want to miss it, do you?"

And Chet's best friend, Marco Lopez, is by his side. He looks a little more injured than Chet. His left arm is in a cast and his left leg is elevated with a wrap on his ankle. A dark bruise runs down the right side of his face. The perfect print of his facemask is blazed in blues, blacks and purples for everyone to see.

"You're safe now, Marco," I whisper as he slowly moves his right arm in a slight warding motion. "Go back to sleep."

He softly mutters something in Spanish and then settles down, and I hope that he knows I'm here with him and that he's no longer in the burning building. It's a terrible thing to be caught in that place, with no way out, and not realize you're dreaming.

Mike Stoker is last in line. Well, the last one from my station.

It's just not fair the things that happen sometimes. Mike shouldn't have been hurt at all. His duty is to his engine, to make sure everything is working for the men he works with. Most of the time, that same duty is what keeps him safe, away from the most dangerous parts of firefighting.

But in the confusion of the fire, one of our hoses tangled with two hoses from 99s. Everyone was busy, so Mike went for the hoses along with Clint from 99s. They ended up close to the building, got thrown to the ground and hit with heavy debris from the building when it went up like a stick of dynamite.

There are heavy bandages on Mike's head that hide the shaved and sewn skin. Part of the stone facing of the building did that to him, almost cracking his skull. As it is, he has broken bones and cuts from the rough edges of the debris that hit him.

"Even more quiet than usual, Mike. Your engine is just fine. Just a few dings and scrapes. Charlie will have it fixed in no time."

Done with my tour, I'm stunned. They are alive. They are breathing. Their hearts are still beating.

See? Nothing to worry about. No need for me to die a little inside at the explosion site as I helped dig my friends out of the hot rubble. No need for me to die a little inside in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. And no need for me to die a little inside as I waited in the blood streaked hospital hallway.

I glance again at Mike's head and shudder.

Why them and not me?

I was there. When it comes right down to it, I would rather it was me than any of my friends to be brought here to this place that reeks of blood, medicine and Death.

Every time this happens, I do die a little inside. No amount of talking, no amount of thinking, no amount of outside support from Dixie will change that.

I hate this but I still can't leave. I really, really hate this.

I was so close to Death today, I can smell it. I can see it.

There are marks on my friends to show how close Death clutched them to his side in his dark embrace.

Somehow, as the rest of us dug them out of the rubble, as the paramedics worked on them, as the doctors at Rampart worked hard to save them, Death was defeated. No one died today. Death has moved on to better hunting grounds until the next shift, the next fire, the next explosion, the next accident, the next mistake, the next slip, the next spill, the next . . .

Stop it.

I'll go crazy if I think about it any more.

Up to this moment, sounds were muted and hushed, as if we are all packed in invisible cotton for our own protection. Sound suddenly comes back to me as hysterical voices rush in only to be hushed by the staff.

The families are here.

Each bedridden man is ringed by worried family members, even Chet Kelly.

No one looks at me. No one speaks to me. And again, I die a little.

Dixie is back. "I have a bed at the end, Johnny. Just take a two hour nap. I'll wake you when we start moving them to rooms."

I nod numbly as I watch the wounded men who willingly fling themselves into fire time after time are being touched with love by loved ones.

I don't resist as Dixie tugs me down the line of beds to an empty one and she helps me sit down.

She nods to me as she moves off, leaving me to lie down and try to relax my muscles. They shout at me from the punishment I've put them through with the overuse and the strain that occurred when I worked like a madman to dig up bodies that I hoped were still breathing.

I let the nearby light voices of love and support lull me to sleep. Whispers of affection tinged with an underlying fear as wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters cling to bedsides looking at battered bodies.

Just before I fall to sleep, I feel a hand on my forehead and words almost too soft to hear in my ear.

"You did good, Johnny. We're all glad you are all right. Get some sleep."

Joanne DeSoto, Roy's wife.

I smile slightly at the voice without opening my eyes. I settle down and finally allow myself to rest.

The sun will shine tomorrow and the birds will sing. And my world will be whole.

They live.

And I can live again, for now.

My last thought, before I give up the battle with fatigue, was a feeling of warmth and worth.

I'll leave dying, inside and out, to some future event. Right now, I just want to sleep in the same room with my friends and heal.

END


End file.
